


This is (not) an X-File

by rekishi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Deputy Derek Hale, Derek has a kid, FBI, Future Fic, Getting Back Together, M/M, Minor anxiety attack(s), Pack Dynamics, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Returning Home, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25284193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rekishi/pseuds/rekishi
Summary: Derek's expression froze when Stiles walked into the station.It was hilarious to watch.---Fifteen years after leaving for good, a string of supernatural murders leaves Stiles little choice but to return to Beacon Hills. While he can't avoid facing the past and the people he left behind, he still has a case to solve. And how can the supernatural be wrong?
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 18
Kudos: 283
Collections: Teen wolf





	This is (not) an X-File

**Author's Note:**

> I have finally something that's actually finished. -_-
> 
> It's been forever since I posted something complete, I do feel pretty bad about that. I've been working on various things, but between real life responsibilities and not having the energy for major creative pursuits (and being sucked into new things), it's been slow going. And then Stiles got in the way, so have this contribution to everyone's distraction from COVID-19! And incentive to stay indoors maybe? :D
> 
> Thank, as always, to [carmenta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmenta/pseuds/carmenta) for the (canon agnostic) beta on this!

Derek's expression froze when Stiles walked into the station. 

It was hilarious to watch.

He didn't seem particularly angry or pissed off, instead almost neutral, and he looked _good_. Objectively speaking. Who was Stiles kidding, Derek would always look good to him even when covered in dirt and gore and wolfed out, even if he hadn't seen him in person in a decade and change. 

The uniform didn't hurt either.

Stiles almost rolled his eyes at himself.

Instead he nodded at Jordan and a few of the others who still knew him, before sitting down in front of Derek's desk. It still smelled the same here: gun oil, sweat, paper, and printing toner. The sound of radios that should have been state-of-the-art when Stiles had been a teenager but had only replaced the old crackling ones when he'd been at college. Stiles had spent a lot of time at this station, it felt a little like home still.

"Stiles," Derek said carefully. It wasn't quite a question. Fair, since they had texted last week and Stiles had said nothing of this. Granted, he hadn't known himself a week ago he would be here now. Stiles didn't go home. Ever.

Instead of dwelling on that he smiled slightly and nodded, breathing in slowly and holding it in for four seconds and exhaling slowly to keep his heartbeat even. He could be professional, even though Derek still looked menacing and hot. "Deputy Hale."

It was a nice thrill saying that.

"The Sheriff's out," Derek said in that same careful voice. Neutral. Safe.

Stiles nodded. "Yeah, he's probably currently being briefed by my employers that I'm here. All official and above board."

Derek's face fell. "You're on a case."

"It's probably nothing," Stiles cautioned, because it probably wasn't. Maybe. Possibly.

The disappointment was interesting; was it because Derek had thought Stiles had finally come home, or was it because he had no inkling about supernatural activity in the region? The latter would be … probably good. The former would be … well, Stiles would have told Derek about that. They were still friends, they texted regularly — and most of it was free of any supernatural drama, which was nice. But Derek had also never let on that he would like Stiles to come here, in fact he was careful to avoid that topic entirely.

Sitting back, Derek shook his head and dragged a hand down his face. "The Feds wouldn't have sent you if it was nothing. They don't pay for your kind of contractors if it was nothing, they would have just sent a pair of agents."

Stiles smiled and he almost _'awwww'ed_ at Derek — would have a decade ago — because it was nice Derek had so much faith in him even now. But then, he had been there for that first flailing year while Stiles figured out the whole contracting for law enforcement and the FBI business, and it was nice that Derek was … maybe a little proud of him? Stiles felt warmth pool in his stomach, which was unexpected and also a little unwelcome. He was here on a case, not to confront his lingering affection for Derek Hale.

Not that Stiles would have managed without Derek. How would the IRS ever believe that Mountain Ash was a valid business expense? In other words, being a consultant for the supernatural for law enforcement was a pain in the ass. So Stiles had latched onto the boon when it turned out Derek had a business degree (?! Yeah, Stiles had nothing except the "Laura made me!" that Derek had barked at him, so go figure), and while Derek had heaved a huge sigh, he'd helped. Because Derek was actually a nice dude and wanted what was best for him and had set up shop in Virginia for reasons Stiles hadn't questioned.

Now Stiles leaned back as well and shook his head fondly. He allowed himself to smile for a second, then schooled his face again. "They sent me because this is my hometown and they know the local supernatural scene will be much more accessible to me than it will be to any outsider. So that's why I'm here. The big guns talk to dad, I talk to you. I'm formally asking for permission to investigate in Beacon Hills, and I'm asking you to set up a meeting with your Alpha for it."

He loved Derek for not even asking why he hadn't called Scott. Stiles loved Scott, even if he sucked at maintaining a friendship at a distance and Stiles had to initiate any contact nineteen out of twenty times, but Stiles also didn't drag his private relationships into his work life. It was why he didn't text about the supernatural with Derek — or anyone else for that matter — and why when he talked to Scott they usually stuck to safer topics unless there was some emergency going on. Stiles liked it that way. Besides, he wasn't part of the pack anymore.

Asking Derek to be the go-between was safe. He was a deputy, he could plausibly have connections to the supernatural. Stiles didn't know if the FBI knew about the Hales — they probably did, but he had no way to make sure — but Derek was part of law enforcement, a valid point of contact.

"You have permission, Stiles," Derek said and gathered some papers to stash in a file. Probably assumed he wouldn't get around to them anyway.

"Hey now, no," Stiles said and shook his head. Derek couldn't _do_ that, even though Stiles was relieved he warranted that kind of trust. "This isn't how it works now. I need to… Look, I'm even staying in a hotel instead of at my dad's, I need formal permission from an Alpha to investigate in pack territory."

"You have permission Stiles," Derek repeated and for just a split second — blink and you miss it — his eyes glowed red. 

Stiles almost fell out of his chair. "Holy fuck!" And almost all eyes were on them for a moment until Stiles had bit his lip and Derek — the fucker — smirked in self-satisfaction. When they had what privacy existed in a busy Sheriff's station, Stiles leaned forward and yelled in a whisper, "When did that happen?!"

And why hadn't he heard about it? Oh well, there was that about not talking about the supernatural with almost anyone he knew socially. But _Derek Hale_ was an _Alpha_ again, holy shit. Stiles wanted to grab him and shake the information out of him, and maybe hug him and never let go.

"A few years ago, in Argentina," Derek said, shrugged as if it was nothing. "It's— Long story and not so easy to drop into a text, 'Hey how's it going btw I'm an Alpha again'... I should have— I didn't know how to tell you or if I'd be welcome if I came to see you."

"You'll always be welcome to come see me," Stiles said without hesitation and that earned him a _smile_ , and God but he had missed seeing Derek. "And I want to hear it. The story."

He had so many questions.

And why Scott hadn't said anything. Or his _dad_ , because this would have been hard to ignore.

Something else occurred to him. "Is that why you're back?"

He'd been worried, a little, about Derek becoming an omega when he'd left Beacon Hills, but luckily that had never come to pass.

Apparently, a bit over two years ago, Derek had shown up in Beacon Hills after being gone for over a decade and had walked up to Stiles' dad and asked him if an acquitted murder suspect could be a deputy. Of course, Dad had jumped at the offer. They had gotten along pretty well after Sheriff Stilinski had learned about why his son and his friends were always involved in the weirdest crimes, and Dad liked Derek. Having a few supernatural influences on the force levelled the playing field. It was why the FBI paid people like Stiles to assist them while maintaining plausible deniability on the supernatural in general. And Stiles liked that Derek would have an eye out for his dad. Win-win situation, really. (Even if Stiles was still bitter there was no actual X-Files department at the FBI.)

But now Derek didn't look at Stiles. "Let's talk about that later. Tell me why you're here."

Sighing, Stiles leaned back again. He still had so many questions, but they'd have to wait. He schooled his face and summarized what was in the files. "Over the past few years there have been ritualistic sacrifices at supernaturally significant sites west of the Rockies. Sometimes outright murders, sometimes staged as suicides but clearly not. There's no pattern to the MO, or in the choice of victims, no connections, nothing. Except that it's all supernaturally themed and sometimes we find a pentagram, a swastika, or other protection symbols at the site or on the body, but not always. It's all very vexing, apparently."

He hadn't been involved in any of this up until four days ago, so he hadn't reached any frustration levels yet.

Frowning, Derek shook his head. "We haven't heard anything."

"And I don't think you would have. All the murders are just slightly … off. If it wasn't for the symbols and the site, I wouldn't have pegged any of these as supernaturally significant. These are not druids or witches or anything else that would ping the supernatural radar of anyone in the know, hell this is not even a bad imitation of pagans — and for the record, pagans don't do shit like this." He drummed his fingers on his knee. "And I'm here because Beacon Hills is still a significant site, and now that the FBI has found a pattern, they're a bit concerned."

Nervous enough to shell out for Stiles' exorbitant fees and make it urgent. While his high school career had been a study in supernatural bullshit, the investigations Stile had been involved in during the past few years had been downright organized. They brought people like him in when they found something that went bump in the night and they couldn't deal with it — and Stiles knew how much shit was dealt with by others, like the Beacon Hills pack. When Stiles came to the scene, either there was no other entity to take care of it or they were in over their heads, and the FBI itself was not equipped for these things, what with the plausible deniability and no Mulder and Scully.

It paid well, even if work was thankfully infrequent. Stiles liked to use his criminology degree in non-supernatural cases as well, thank you very much.

"And when you say a bit concerned…" Derek trailed off and Stiles only looked at him. It seemed that even now Derek could still read him, and he shook his head. "Well, I have nothing. Let me know what you need. Your dad's outside, so we'll take it from there."

...

"What are our odds that this is a run of the mill serial killer?" Dad asked, and really, it said a lot about Beacon Hills for that to be the preferable option.

Stiles chewed his pad thai — his dad had brought along takeout — and weighed his answer. "Middling?" Dad waited him out. "It could still be occult. Or cultish. If it's supernatural, we'll know. But I also trust the pack would take care of it."

When he glanced up, Dad was _looking_ at him. Stiles knew what that meant. "Dad…"

"No, I know," Dad cut him off. "And I'm not saying it should be different, but if you're working with the supernatural, I simply sometimes would prefer you did it here. You can't blame an old man."

Smiling, Stiles shook his head. "I can help more people this way."

The pack had gone off to college, and while some of them had not returned afterwards, most had. Even _Jackson_ had come back. Heck, Derek had. Lydia was living some kind of part time existence between Beacon Hills and MIT, and she was sympathetic to Stiles' decision not to return since she couldn't abide the city full time either (and had even turned down an offer from CalTech because it was still too close). Cora was still in Argentina and had a _kid_ now, what had the world come to. Malia was travelling. Peter was dead — Derek had told him he was dead for sure now, and Stiles hadn't asked, just trusted Derek. Liam, Mason, and Theo were gone, off to where Stiles didn't know where. The others — and a few Stiles didn't know — had come back to Beacon Hills and Stiles had kept in touch with his friends, had even encouraged Isaac to go back.

But he didn't feel like pack, and didn't want the heartache.

His dad dropped the topic and went back to the case at hand. "I want reports, and I don't want you to go off investigating without Derek or Scott. And I want you to be as accountable to me as you'll be to the FBI."

"Sure, Dad," he said. He didn't actually have any law enforcement jurisdiction, really the only drawback of his position. "Why didn't you tell me about Derek?"

Dad rolled his eyes. "I thought that was a bit of information that should come from him."

Stiles didn't say anything and Dad let the topic rest.

...

When Stiles came back to the bullpen, he stopped at Derek's desk. "Looks like your ass is mine for the duration." When Derek rolled his eyes, Stiles grinned. "Catch up tonight?"

"I'll be off at eight," Derek said gruffly, but there was a smile somewhere in there. 

They ended up at a pub that was new to Stiles but served imported beers and burgers apparently good enough that Derek was already devouring his second. He was out of uniform, and Stiles took his time to look his fill. In his late 30s now, Derek still looked more than fine. The odd grey hair was mixed in with the black, but it didn't make him look aged at all. How did werewolf ageing work anyway? For some reason Stiles had never investigated that aspect of werewolf biology.

"Have you talked to Scott?" Stiles asked and took a mouthful of beer. The music was loud enough so no one would overhear them, but not overpowering his hearing. Not that Derek would have been bothered by that.

Derek grunted. "I take it you haven't."

"He's at the conference thing, schmoozing with other vets. I'll talk to him tomorrow." Stiles stole a fry. "So, Argentina?"

Derek rolled his eyes, and it gave Stiles a kick that he could still elicit that response. It was nice, it reminded Stiles of when it had been just the two of them in Virginia.

After the whole debacle with his FBI internship — that had tanked his chances to be a proper FBI agent one day, but Stiles had by now subsumed that he would have flunked out of Quantico, and besides it had still put him on their radar — Stiles had gone back to his criminology degree. (If anyone had asked him at the beginning of sophomore year what he wanted to study in college, 'criminology' would have been way down on the list. Go figure.) Turning his back on the pack had not been easy, but the chant of awayawayaway in his head had stopped at last. Although when Lydia had started at MIT, the occasional meetings with her (and Scott's visits) had been his lifeline. 

After senior year, Stiles hadn't gone home. He knew grad school would be the way to push that back further, but he lacked the experience they were asking for, so he interned the first year (the most interesting one at the original body farm in Tennessee). He had been back at GWU as a research assistant when he was approached by Rafe McCall, of all people, for some help and that was when Derek had called him and said he was in Arlington and would Stiles like to meet. Eventually Stiles had figured they were past statutory rape charges and made a move. Being friends with benefits with Derek had been … fun, and intense, and Stiles had many fond memories of it. 

And maybe Stiles would have wanted to be more than just friends, but he very much kept that part of himself compartmentalized, because Derek wasn't ready for that. Stiles didn't need a psychology degree to see that (and part of his criminology studies had included psychology, thanks). So when Stiles had applied to grad school and Derek was getting restless and wanted to go to Argentina to be with Cora, Stiles was a little glad he wouldn't get his feelings all over the dude. They'd called off the benefits, kept texting, and then Derek had shown up back in Beacon Hills a few years later.

"We were attacked, and I managed to kill him." Derek took a swig of his beer as well and pushed his empty plate away. He looked contemplative and that hardly seemed like the long story he had announced to Stiles. "And suddenly I was an Alpha again."

Stiles waited him out. He'd become better at waiting, at patience, especially where Derek was concerned. Or maybe it was that he was finally managing his ADHD without medication. Or both. But when nothing was forthcoming, even after several minutes, he gently kicked Derek. "Why not stay down there?"

"I…" Derek frowned, drank some more and peeled the label off the bottle. "It wouldn't have worked in that pack, with two Alphas. And Luna… My Alpha there, Cora's Alpha, she encouraged me to come home. All my instincts told me to come home. This is Hale territory… I don't know, Stiles."

Stiles bit his lip to suppress a smile. "How does it work here, with two Alphas?"

Laughing, Derek shook his head. "Scott can't kill anything. I definitely profit from his diplomacy. We … recruit according to whose character fits better. If we recruit. It works fine."

True, Scott's hesitation to strike the final blow had cost them before. 

"It sounds good, Derek. Really good." They smiled at each other and Stiles was glad Derek seemed to be happy. The knowledge sat warm in his stomach and radiated into his limbs.

This was a more settled Derek, but time and distance and good things happening were bound to do that. He fumbled a second phone out of his pocket and placed it in front of Stiles. "There's something else." He unlocked it. "This is Ben."

The Gallery app, and of course Derek would be using the stock option, opened to pictures of a toddler reaching towards the camera, other pictures where he was held by Cora; she was grinning like crazy.

"Oh, is he Cora's?" Stiles leaned over the phone, swiped through the pictures. He was bad with the ages of small children. He seemed to be walking. When did kids start walking, at one year old? A few older pictures had Derek holding him. Same eyes. 

"Mine," Derek said very quietly and Stiles almost thought he had misheard. His eyes snapped up, and he knew his stare was wide and surprised and—

"No way," Stiles said and swiped through the pictures again. But the newer ones were all Ben, or Cora and Ben, or various other women Stiles didn't know and Ben, and that meant… "Where is he? Why are you _here_?"

He wanted to send himself the picture with Derek and the small adorable mini version of him, but Stiles knew that would be overstepping.

Derek gently reached out and took the phone back. "He's with his mom in Cora's pack. Ana didn't know she was pregnant by the time I became an Alpha and I was already back here when she told me. But even so…" When he caught Stiles' raised eyebrow, he was quick to add, "Ana won't leave her whole family, and I'm not going to ask her. She's not … we're not … it wasn't like that."

Oh God, Derek was still a failwolf. And a lamewolf. Stiles laughed and leaned back in his seat, gently kicked Derek under the table again. "Hey, I'm not judging you. Free of judgement, me. At least this is a good thing. This is a good thing. Right? Derek?"

Smiling brilliantly, Derek nodded. "Yes, yes it is. He is. We're making it work, he'll come here when he's a bit older."

"Sounds great," Stiles told him softly and smiled back. Derek deserved good things happening to him. Was Ben a werewolf? Would there be another Hale for the Hale territory? "Does the pack know?"

"Scott knows," Derek said. "We don't discuss it."

Stiles frowned, but shrugged. Pack politics were beyond him, but it explained the second phone if he wanted to keep his two lives separate. But on that note… "I don't know what my employers know about you and I'd like to keep it that way. So I'm sorry for being … obtuse about any supernatural hijinks going on when we talk."

"Are you under surveillance?" Derek asked and signalled their waitress for another beer, looking to Stiles in question. 

"Sure," he said. "And I don't think so?"

"You're not sure," Derek concluded. He seemed uncomfortable.

"I also like that I can send you cat memes and that both of us have enough downtime to read and watch random shit on Netflix, dude." Stiles smiled at the waitress when she brought their beers. "I like that our lives are not in danger on a weekly basis. Well, aside from you being a cop and all."

"And you working for the Feds." Derek winked. "It's not like our run of the mill speedsters have wolfsbane bullets."

They chatted for another hour about other things: Stiles' last case and how it might be useful for Beacon Hills (djinn were a menace), Scott's ongoing relationship dramas (no one would ever reach Allison Argent levels of devotion), Lydia's continued quest for the Fields Medal (she had no patience for the vagaries of bureaucracy). It was all very mundane and by the time Derek was taking Stiles back to his hotel ("I'm really glad you got the Camaro back from storage, it's just … more you. Even officer-of-the-law you, which is worrisome," Stiles said laughing and Derek glowered), the reason why Stiles was in Beacon Hills seemed very far away and he felt too comfortable and like he and Derek were doing this every few weeks still.

"You seem … settled," Stiles eventually voiced what had been going around his head all evening. For as long as he had known Derek, the man had been a ball of barely controlled rage, guilt, and self-recrimination; even back east when they had both been as far removed from the pack as they could physically be that had been true. He credited Derek's born-a-werewolf self-control for not losing it entirely.

Derek shot him a brief glance, eyes searching, before looking at the empty streets again. "Thank you. Luna, she… After a while she sat me down and told me if I wanted to be part of her pack I'd need to work on my … issues. Laura should have done it when we were in New York, but Laura had enough to deal with on her own and was a new Alpha on top of that. No one should be an Alpha at nineteen. Or twenty-two." He smiled self-deprecatingly, and Stiles allowed himself to reach out and briefly touch Derek's shoulder, and he didn't bring up Scott-The-True-Alpha, because deep down, he agreed with that assessment. 

Derek's first Alpha-dom had been a disaster, and Stiles had never known Laura but couldn't imagine anyone would have fared well in the role when faced with the trauma of losing one's whole family. That Derek was blaming himself, for better or worse, and probably hadn't told his sister about the whole Kate Argent situation… Well. It couldn't have gone well, was what Stiles was saying. 

"Being away helped," Derek finally said. "Cora, having a competent Alpha who knew what she was doing, a strong pack to fall back on when it got really bad, all of that helped. It still was a lot of work, and I'm glad it shows."

"It does," Stiles said and looked at Derek's profile, wondering how much he could ask before being told to stop. "It's why you and Laura went to New York, isn't it? To be away?"

Derek gripped the steering wheel tighter for a second, the leather creaked, but then he relaxed his white-knuckled grip. "Laura said it was better to abandon the territory than have it taken by force. I think she was afraid of leaving me alone if someone came to take the Alpha status from her, and as we both know she was right. New York seemed like a good choice, as far away as we could get, and easy to blend into the general populace and not advertise who we are."

That left the question whether Laura had known about the supernatural underbelly of NYC, but considering what Stiles knew about the Hales, he didn't think so. Too sheltered; Talia seemed to have played supernatural politics close to her chest. For whatever that had been worth. But he let it rest and merely hummed in acknowledgement. 

They stayed silent the rest of the drive, and when Derek pulled into the hotel parking lot, Stiles stretched and rubbed his eyes. "Is it okay if I come to the station tomorrow and or do you want to meet somewhere else?"

Hesitating, Derek eventually shook his head. "I believe Scott will want a word. And the pack." When Stiles wanted to protest Derek cut him off. "Look, I hear what you're saying, and I have a good idea why, too. But you know as well as I do that this won't play like a normal case, and it's best we agree on that now."

And Stiles was an old hand at this game, but he still took a second to swallow his automatic protest. This was _Derek_ after all, and who was Stiles if he didn't talk back? "Yes, Alpha Hale."

Snorting, Derek shook his head and turned to him fully, reached out a hand and placed it on Stiles' shoulder. "You have my support, without question. And I'm glad they sent you."

The underlying message, that Derek was glad Stiles had come home even if it was only for work and that he hoped it wouldn't be the last time, was clear. That was the trouble, that Stiles knew Derek the man much better these days than he knew Derek the werewolf — not that the two were diametrically opposed or something. So before opening the door and getting out of the Camaro, Stiles gripped Derek's wrist in reassurance. Nodding, he said, "Thank you, Derek."

Derek nodded back and let him go, and Stiles went to his government paid (and therefore spartan) hotel room to brood over the case files a little longer.

...

In hindsight, the insistent early-morning knocking on his door was to be expected. It wasn't even something new. Just that this time he didn't have field agents with him, and he was here on reconnaissance so there was no reason for the early morning knocking.

He groaned and rolled off the mattress. 

Stiles should have simply told the reception to give the insane werewolf who'd come for him a key. Not that Scott would have asked at reception, no, the weirdo would simply have followed his scent. So when Stiles opened the door, eyes still bleary, he wasn't expecting the tackle hug or Scott's nose immediately buried in the crook of his nose, but he should have.

"Okay," he muttered and let the door fall shut and let himself be held up by Scott, arms around him in turn. And yeah, he'd missed this. Missed Scott. For a few moments he just let himself breathe, enveloped by his friend's strength and warmth. Let himself miss this.

Scott sniffed. "You smell of Derek."

"I sat in his car for twenty minutes yesterday," Stiles said, and yeah that's what he got for not showering again yesterday. "Guess that would do it. Did you drive through the night?"

Scott had been at a vet conference somewhere in SoCal and he should not have been back before sometime in the afternoon. Well, so much for that.

"Of course!" he scoffed and yeah, why did Stiles expect anything else. "Come on, we're meeting the pack."

At least by now Stiles' brain had woken up enough to make sense of the words. "Scott, no. This is not pack business. I didn't mean to—"

"You being here makes it pack business," Scott said resolutely, and yeah this was what Derek had meant yesterday. So Stiles didn't fight it for now; he'd save his breath for later. 

Eventually Scott let go of him and Stiles escaped to the bathroom for a shower and fresh clothes. Hopefully he'd get breakfast before having to face a werewolf pack.

The thing was, Scott was still Stiles' friend. It had been rocky for a while there in high school, after the Nogitsune, and when Stiles had felt the pull to away-away-away, but their friendship had eventually made it through. For most of college Stiles had introduced Scott as his brother when he'd come out east to visit, and even today that was just easier sometimes. It certainly had felt like it through most of their lives. But Scott didn't consider Stiles not to be part of his pack, didn't acknowledge that friendship had nothing to do with being pack, while Stiles was convinced that being part of this particular pack would eventually get him killed.

A fear that had been unintentionally confirmed by Derek one night long ago now when they'd been half asleep, and Derek had looked terribly guilty about it. Well, at least he'd been honest.

Scott didn't let him have breakfast, not even bad hotel coffee, nor let him take his rental, so by the time Stiles got out of the car again, he looked, still bleary eyed, at a familiar building. "Are you seriously still using Derek's loft as a base of operations?"

When Scott shrugged, Stiles shook his head. What had they done while Derek had been in Argentina? On second thought, Stiles didn't want to know, because the abandoned train depot was an option and he didn't even want to imagine. Maybe the clinic. The clinic would actually be better, especially with Deaton having moved on.

At least Derek seemed to have cleaned the windows, finally, which did wonders for the place.

Stiles didn't know half the people had lounged around on various furniture in the loft. At least he had not gone to high school with that half. Well. 

He caught Derek's gaze, and— Oh, Derek was a man after his own heart after all, because Derek held out a cinnamon roll out to him and when Stiles made a beeline for him, he chuckled while asking quietly, "Coffee?"

"You are a sweet angel of the lord, Derek Hale, and I love you," Stiles blurted out, and huh, he was not still asleep enough not to notice that earned him a few interesting glances as well as at least one pink-tipped ear from Derek. And Stiles… Well, he didn't know what his heartbeat had done there, but he'd examine that feeling of weightlessness in his stomach another time.

But Derek, bless his heart, only smirked and said, "Always knew you were easy," and got up to fetch him coffee with cream and sugar from his pretentious French press. 

A few nervous chuckles went around the room while Stiles wallowed in the sweet, sweet goodness of the cinnamon roll.

"Stiles," Scott said, half laughing, half serious.

"Present," he answered. "It's your fault you wouldn't have let me even have coffee, I'm not to blame for Derek's caring disposition."

That earned a snort from Jackson, and yeah, okay, that was maybe putting it on a bit thick.

Derek chose that moment to press coffee into his hand and sit down next to him at the big ass dining table again. "Stiles."

"Yeah yeah," Stiles said and dug out his laptop. Then he looked around; he really didn't know half the people that were part of the McCall pack, so he took a drink of coffee and looked around. "Hi, I'm Stiles. I'm the Sheriff's son, and I grew up here in Beacon Hills. I actually went to high school with about half of this lot. I'm here now as a consultant for the FBI; I'm not going to reveal your identities or tell my employers anything you don't want me to tell them, but I am obligated to hand in a report."

He intentionally didn't touch on the question of his being or having been pack in order not to divide the two Alphas here, and it earned him a gentle kick from Derek. Stiles gave him a fleeting half smile, then shrugged. 

"Usually I introduce myself to the local supernatural entity, so you can consider this my grand entrance." There was a reason why Stiles usually only dealt with the leader of any group. These were a lot of people to take into the fold, and while he knew Scott and Derek, Jackson and Isaac, Chris and Jordan, and Lydia who wasn't there, but the four women on the other side of the room were strangers to him. 

It turned out Beth and Jing, both born werewolves, had been saved from hunters by Chris and Derek of all people (miracles were still happening, apparently) and had stayed because they didn't have a pack. Sarah was Jackson's wife (seriously?) and human, and Mia was a senior in high school, who Scott had bitten to save her life two years ago (and yes, Stiles was giving him so much side eye for that one).

Well. No time like the present. Stiles had finished his food while the ladies talked, and got up with his coffee and his laptop to appropriate Derek's giant ass wall-mounted flatscreen so he could give his spiel once more.

He showed the victims, the symbols carved onto or next to them, rattled down facts and figures. The murders had been going on for ten years, and there was nothing.

"What about the sites?" Derek asked finally.

"That's what made them finally send me the files and ask me to come here," Stiles said and showed a map of the western US with all sites marked. There was no pattern, predictably. "The blood sacrifices, the almost meticulous care with which the victims are treated, the symbols, it's all very ritualistic, but many serial killers are. The sites the victims are found at though, are all supposedly supernaturally important."

Jackson eyed him. "What do you mean, supposedly?"

The douche had a posh British accent now. If Stiles hadn't been annoyed by him in the sandbox already he would almost believe it. 

"Some of these sites are just urban myths, nothing supernatural about them. I went out to the last two sites earlier this week, had a chat with the resident Alpha in Montana and a Gatekeeper in New Mexico, and the Montana site is a bust, supernaturally speaking, even if people in town see that differently. The one in New Mexico is an active site, but didn't react to the staged-suicide." Stiles pulled up images of the two sites. "There is a real supernatural site in Montana, but it's hundreds of miles away, so it's not even a near miss. The same runs through the other sites, some are legit, some not, and as if someone went off a lot of urban legends in order to make this real."

"Maybe that's the case," Sarah said and frowned at the display. Now, she was legit British. Maybe they were trying to teach their kids the posh accent. Good luck with that, but who was Stiles to judge.

He sighed. "It has occurred to the agents working the cases and this is a parallel angle under investigation. It doesn't mean that no one is _trying_ though."

"Trying what?" Scott asked and Stiles shrugged. 

He had nothing. "It all feels just a bit off. Like someone is entering the wrong code into a keypad and coming up empty."

Jackson snorted. "And you're here why?"

"If even the FBI knows the town is part of the nexus…" Derek interjected and grimaced. "It's the Nemeton, isn't it?" They locked eyes and Stiles raised both eyebrows in a _what do you think?_ gesture. Derek sighed. "It's putting up shoots."

"Well, it's a tree," Stiles waved off. A tree in a supernatural nexus of energy that Stiles, Scott, and Allison had activated, but the Nemeton had been putting up shoots even when they were still in high school. Stiles actually thought it might be a good thing, but that was something to discuss with the Alphas, not with the whole pack. "I'll have a look. But the Nemeton as a concept is very specific to the subset of Celtic Druidic mythology, and while other supernatural beings are able to feel it and are drawn to it, it would take a serial killer some digging to come up with it. What you're telling me is that nothing weird has happened? Weird for Beacon Hills at least?"

Heads were shaken after some hesitation and Stiles looked at Scott. "Nothing that kills people. We'll establish patrols."

Stiles nodded and looked at his watch. It wasn't even eight in the morning and he was already working; he hadn't done that voluntarily since the last mad scramble around his thesis. Then again, was kidnapping by werewolf voluntary?

A murmur passed around the room, and the others started to collect their things. All of them had _jobs_ now, and it was a little amazing to see Issac and Jackson as the adults Stiles had never thought they'd live to be. It made him miss Erica and Boyd with a physical ache in his chest. So much wasted potential, and it all seemed so small now, a decade and a half later. 

Someone cleared their throat when all but Stiles and the two Alphas had left.

"With your permission, Stiles, I'd like to ask Luna if she's heard anything from south of the border. The packs there are pretty well connected. Your information is all local, isn't it?" Derek asked.

Shrugging, Stiles sat on the sofa. Very comfy. "Western US, I hope someone would have noticed if people had been killed in Salem or something." On second thought, that happened every few years so it might not even have registered and he made a note to ping a local agent. "But go ahead and ask if something stands out to them, it won't hurt."

There was a lull in the conversation and Scott came to sit with him and did his wolfy touching thing and Stiles didn't have the heart to push him away, so he wrapped an arm around him. They'd need to tell Lydia if they were involving the pack; maybe she would see a pattern that had slipped by Stiles. After all, Lydia was a genius.

He sighed and leaned his head back, let himself be lulled by Scott's warmth pressed against his side, trying to make lists of what they needed to do. If it was nothing, it was nothing but... 

"Stiles," was the next thing he heard, a very quiet voice calling his name and when he opened his eyes the sun stood differently at the window and his neck was aching something fierce (he really was too old to sleep like this), and Derek was in uniform and touching his knee. Scott had slumped away from him, also fast asleep. "You can go to bed if you want, I don't mind. But I have to spend the day with you and I won't listen to you complaining about the crick in your neck."

Oh no. Scott had acted all territorial this morning already, what with the complaints about his scent and the cuddling, and Stiles didn't know if it was because he had been gone or if it was a Derek thing. Scott probably didn't even know himself if it was a wolf thing. But Stiles was not going to be the cause of a turf war for his attention when he wasn't staying. And sleeping in Derek's bed would definitely aggravate something.

"Nah," he said and received a lopsided smile in turn. "I have to justify my time, and I promised Dad I'd come for dinner. Are we starting at the Nemeton?"

He scribbled a note for Scott even as Derek nodded, then collected his laptop. And while he still rubbed his eyes, he was ready to go.

Derek, the showoff, had a squad car downstairs and Stiles left his laptop in the trunk.

They were silent on the drive, and Stiles was trying to sort his thoughts; he didn't have the best memories of the stump of the Nemeton. He remembered the ice water closing over his head, he remembered cowering helplessly in his own head as the Nogitsune did as it wanted. It was the only memory he had of that time, the helplessness. He never wanted to feel like that again.

Well, the stump was putting up shoots alright, like it was finally recovering. It probably was a good sign, though Stiles had no hard facts to substantiate it. But he also didn't know when or by whom it had been cut down, his only maybe reliable source on the topic had died with Satomi. Peter had known, perhaps, but he was not reliable nor was alive anymore either. Perhaps it had been done by the Hales, but any written testaments had burned with the house.

"How does it feel to you?" Derek asked quietly, crouching next to him but not touching.

Stiles shook his head. "Like a tree. I'm not supernatural, Derek." When the man just looked at him in confusion (okay, he felt very good about _Derek_ obviously thinking all these years that he was more than human; this sort of ego stroking never hurt), Stiles sighed. "I'd hoped, for a long time, you know? After Deaton put the fucking Mountain Ash in my hands and told me to be the spark, and when that little bit of Ash lasted around the whole compound, I thought maybe… But I didn't know then, about rituals and affirmation."

Derek frowned and Stiles sat on the Nemeton, careful not to crush any shoots because he was sure it wouldn't like that, and looked at him. But it was a tree, no matter what else it was. "Most magic is intention based belief. I'm not a witch and I have no innate ability, which I would need to make intention based belief come true, but I can affirm an age old ritual without knowing what I'm doing. It's like a call and response in music or in church. I was told what to do, I did it, and it worked because it has always worked like that."

Rubbing over his face, Derek shook his head. "Could Deaton have been any more obtuse?"

"No, and I'm pretty bitter about it. After all these years, I have to assume I'm simply human and that I'm just the man who ran with wolves. What does it feel like to you?" Did werewolves have extra senses or just enhanced senses? Stiles thought he should know that; didn't Scott have premonitions about Erica and Mia? Liam?

Even without knowing what had happened with Derek and Paige at the Nemeton, the shift in the air would have been noticeable. When the silence between them grew too heavy, Stiles got up and rested his hand on Derek's shoulder — the muscles under his fingers so tense he was surprised he couldn't hear Derek's teeth gnash — then allowed himself to cup the back of his head in silent comfort. Derek let out a long breath and, when he moved, dislodged Stiles' hand. 

"Old and greedy," he finally said and his voice was barely more than a rumble. "But not broadcasting to every supernatural entity from here to Brazil. No smell of dead bodies. Did you want to go down…?"

Among the roots. No, Stiles definitely didn't. He trusted Derek when he said there were no dead bodies here, and that would have been too easy. So Stiles shook his head and walked away from the Nemeton until he thought he could breathe again. Damnit, he thought he'd dealt with that trauma. 

He stopped on a clearing and looked up towards the sky. Blue, blue sky. 

Of course it was intentional that he could hear Derek approach; a werewolf would never telegraph his movements if he didn't want to. So it wasn't a surprise exactly when he was pulled against Derek and arms wrapped around him. God, werewolves were so predictably tactile. But Stiles let him, and leaned his head on Derek's shoulder and enjoyed the heat radiating off him.

"Alright?" Derek rumbled against his ear, and when Stiles nodded he let him step away. "So the Nemeton isn't it?" When he got no answer, Derek switched gears. "Why are you so convinced we're next?"

Stiles turned around and narrowed his eyes. Derek shrugged. Stiles definitely needed to become less transparent to law enforcement. Or perhaps just his dad and Derek. Sighing, he dragged a hand through his hair. "Twelve cases in the past ten years. At least one in each state west of the Rockies. None in California. There are plenty of faux supernatural sites in SoCal, but if it's the real deal …. Beacon Hills is it. It can be next week or next year or at any given time."

"Or never," Derek said quietly.

Stiles snorted. "You won't be that lucky. You can't be vigilant forever, I know that. I would just prefer to help if it really is something that's in my area of expertise."

That seemed to be something Derek was able to accept. "Do you want to be there when I call Luna? Or I can drop you at the hotel so you can get your rental."

"No, I do. Thanks." 

By the time they came back to the loft, Scott was gone (and had left a note he'd catch up on paperwork at the clinic) and Derek made them another coffee before opening his laptop. Apparently he'd arranged the call before, because someone picked up on the other side of the video chat almost instantly.

Two women sat in front of the screen, one of them held Ben in her arms. So that was probably Ana. The other, Luna then, was in her sixties and was maybe a bit younger than Talia Hale would have been now. But despite her age, her eyes were still steely and she looked like a woman who brooked no argument. 

"Derek!" She said and smiled, and her features were transformed and yes, this woman had a lot of fun in life. What followed was a barrage of Spanish that was too rapid fire for Stiles to understand.

Laughing, Derek shook his head. "No, not at all! Luna, this is Stiles. Stiles, Luna."

Stiles cleared his throat. "My pleasure, Alpha…"

"Valente," she helped him out and laughed when she saw Stiles elbow Derek.

"Alpha Valente," he finished. "Thank you for speaking with me."

"So you are Stiles," she said and turned to the woman at her side to exchange a glance. 

Suddenly self-conscious, Stiles was hard pressed not to put Derek on the spot what he had been saying about him. 

"Stiles, Ana; Ana, Stiles. And I guess you heard about Ben?" The toddler was reaching towards the camera, and Stiles only then caught the silly faces Derek was making, and oh God, Stiles wanted to die. Derek was making silly faces at his baby. Yeah, Stiles would die a happy man. Instead of saying anything that the flush in his cheeks wasn't already, he nodded. Then Alpha Valente was all business again. "Derek, tell us what this is about."

When Derek had summarized the situation, she looked contemplative. "Nothing comes to mind immediately," she finally said. "But let me ask around. Derek, a word?"

He nodded, and Stiles decided it was time to remove himself from the call. "It was very nice to meet you, Alpha Valente. And you, Ana. Bye Ben."

He waved and used Derek's shoulder to push away from the couch. He puttered around with the French press, listening to the too-fast-for-him Spanish with half an ear and took liberties with Derek's fridge. When that yielded nothing, he took a granola bar from where he also found the sugar for his coffee, and was still munching on that when Derek joined him, a scowl on his face.

"You need to tell me when I'm overstepping here, but… Trouble? Anything I can help you with?" Stiles gestured at the leftover coffee and watched as Derek poured himself some, black as always. Still a coffee snob, then. That was something Stiles had only found out in DC; and he was somewhat fond of it. And sad at the same time, considering the squalor Derek had lived in for a few years in Beacon Hills. There had definitely been no special roast coffee in his life then.

Leaning back against the counter, Derek looked at him and seemed to weigh back and forth what to say. Eventually, he said, "There's a dispute of territory. That is almost as old as Luna is, but it seems to be escalating. I offered my support but…"

"It's not your pack," Stiles said with a nod. "Is everyone safe?"

"For now." And then he dropped it. "What's your plan for the rest of the day?"

"Lunch," Stiles said. "I want to ask Scott to go running. Then dinner with Dad. Do you need to go to the station?"

He sort of wanted to monopolize Derek's time, and Scott's, but since Stiles was leaving it wouldn't be right. He'd take what he could get and that would be that.

Derek dropped him at the hotel before going in, and Stiles did research for another few hours before stretching and calling up Scott. It was like calling a puppy, and Scott bounced almost like one when he collected Stiles and they went running in the Preserve.

The disadvantage of going running with a werewolf was, Stiles was _running_ and there was no chance to talk. The advantage was, well, he was running and Scott couldn't complain he didn't smell like pack; Stiles was pretty sure he smelled of sweat to the exclusion of everything else. They stopped in the middle of the woods, and Stiles gulped in air, then coughed and wanted to lie down and die but didn't. 

"We should do this more often!" Scott said and grinned at him. 

Stiles was still wheezing. "Do you want to kill me?"

"Oh come on," Scott pouted and patted him on the back. "You've been running around out here with Derek all day, haven't you?"

Derek again. Stiles eyed his friend. "At the Nemeton, yeah. That wasn't as much fun. What's going on, Scott? You didn't say anything about Derek being an Alpha, or about Derek having a kid, and now you harp on us working together. What's the deal?"

He watched as Scott paced, and Stiles straightened again from where he had been doubled over to relieve the strain on his lungs. 

"It's… You're never here. And now that you are, it seems you're here for Derek," Scott finally said.

Not exactly a territory matter then, but also not exactly jealousy. Stiles walked up to Scott and pulled him into a hug, and he felt Scott bury his nose in the crook of Stiles' sweaty neck and ewww. But he didn't pull away, because this was important. "I'm just a phone call away, Scotty."

"I know, but—"

Once, Scott had all but offered the bite to him if he were sick. To this day Stiles doubted it would have taken, but at the time it had seemed the only way out. He still appreciated Scott's take-action attitude.

Stiles spoke over him. "I know you want me here, but we've talked about this. It's been fifteen years. You may not be my Alpha anymore, Scott, but you'll always be my best friend. Ok? Call me, anytime. I'm here for work. Derek is an accessory to that." He sighed and ew, they were both sweaty and sticky. "And now let me go or I'll overheat."

Scott was still pouting. "You like him though, don't you? Derek."

Once upon a time, that question would have made Stiles' heart beat faster and been a dead giveaway. And even though now Stiles had seen Derek make silly faces at his baby, it was easier to answer. "Sure," he said and shrugged. "But I'm not going to go ahead and send out wedding invites. Derek's important to me, I'm glad he's doing so well. Doesn't make you any less important to me than you've always been, and I have no words for how happy I am the pack is doing so amazingly. But... Scott, I can't. Let me do my job. Let Derek be whatever. Let me be your friend. We can be friends without the pack involved, we had each other before you ever were a wolf."

Scott smiled a small understanding smile and hugged him again before shoving him (gently) and then took off towards the car.

Back at the hotel, Stiles took a shower on shaking legs and decided to check his email on his phone in bed, because he could. A few emails from his FBI liaison, a text message from Lydia to let him know she was looking at the data, a text from Derek asking where he wanted to meet tomorrow. 

Then he had dinner with his dad, and that was nice to just be able to go over and have dinner with Dad in the house he had grown up in, Stiles was not going to deny that. Yet he couldn't let himself miss home, not the way his heart was threatening to.

...

At the end of the second day, Stiles thought he might as well tell the FBI that if it was supernatural it would be handled, but he couldn't find any evidence. Lydia had come up with no pattern either, and had said, "It's almost like it's supernatural but wrong."

And that still banged around in Stiles' head. How could the supernatural be wrong?

So towards the end of Derek's shift, he came to sit in front of Derek's desk and said, "When Peter was still alive…" And judging by the red eyes, it was still a touchy topic. "I know, but bear with me. Did he ever seem … wrong?"

"What wasn't wrong with Peter?" Derek muttered and Stiles gave him a small, lopsided smile in return. But Derek put his pen down and seemed to give it serious thought. "He was an abnormality and I didn't want to trust him. Why?"

No one should ever have trusted Peter. Cora and Stiles should never have asked him about Derek, and Stiles still wasn't sure how to ask tactfully about Paige (probably not at all). 

Stiles shook his head. "Something Lydia said and that I can't grasp. I'll get back to you on that."

Derek grunted and went back to his paperwork. Stiles didn't know how long they sat in companionable silence while he turned the matter around in his head, until his Dad stopped by and tapped his knuckles on Derek's desk. "How about dinner, boys?"

How could anyone refuse an offer like that?

It was _nice_ having three people at the dinner table. Stiles had always thought that, and in the past it had usually been Scott coming over and eating with them, but since Stiles had stopped coming home it had mostly been him and Dad when Stiles had flown him out east. And now there was Derek also shoveling veggie lasagna in his face, and Stiles felt a bang in his heart. It helped that Derek and Dad were able to switch from deputy-and-sheriff to something more friendly when out of uniform. A long familiarity that might be something like friendship, and the friendly banter distracted Stiles from his own thoughts.

"It's not the Nemeton, then," Dad said with a sigh. "That would have been too easy."

Stiles shrugged. "Not yet anyway. Means nothing, really. But I think the Nemeton might be more stable now." That earned him a few questioning glances. "The pack is more stable, I think that feeds back to the Nemeton. You said it's not broadcasting to anything and everything, and that would make sense since you've had less supernatural trouble since Scott and the pack have been back and are … you know, fucking adults. When the supernatural is comprised of a bunch of hormonal teenagers and one emotionally unstable werewolf whose anchor is anger... Well, we should have known that wouldn't go well."

Dad snorted, and Derek looked at him with a mixture of bafflement and that pleased-as-punch expression Stiles would file away for later examination. So many new Derek expressions, it was glorious being home.

By the time Derek left, Stiles felt languid and sated and happily would let the dishwasher take care of the dishes.

"Ah, Dad, I missed this."

Dad looked over and raised one significant eyebrow. "Well, I'm not stopping you from having it more often." When Stiles grunted, he shook his head and looked at the cabinet again, no doubt hunting for a tumbler for some of the whiskey Stiles had given him as a Christmas present. "You also missed Derek, no?"

"Dad-"

"All I'm saying is that if you still feel for him, then don't you think he deserves to know?" Dad asked and came back with two fingers of amber liquid in his glass. He didn't offer any to Stiles since he would be driving back to the hotel soon.

One breath, two. Then Stiles shook his head, but not in denial. "Not while I'm on a case." Because it would be dishonest to say he couldn't imagine him and Derek in something more than casual friends, or even good friends. "Smelling of wolf would make my job so much harder." He rubbed his face and rested his head on his folded arms, still looking at Dad. "And we couldn't be together without me joining the pack and being here and … I don't know Dad, it has disaster written all over it."

Even though this Derek would probably be able to handle the whole _feelings_ aspect, and commitment, and Stiles wanting what would have been impossible a decade ago. 

Over the years, Stiles had been complimented by many a supernatural entity for his diplomacy, for his pragmatism when it came to the idiosyncrasies of mythical beings living among humans. The werewolves often said he acted like pack without any obvious affiliation and that made them trust him, because he took responsibility and organized and made working with him easy. All of that would be made infinitely harder by having a pack of his own, let alone having the smell of wolf ingrained with his own, and it might not be prohibitive overall but so hard. None of that even took into account that Stiles felt wrong in his own skin in Beacon Hills and that the only thing keeping him calm even to werewolf senses was the fact that he could leave.

Dad buried his hand in Stiles' hair and stroked gently. "Lydia isn't here full time. Malia travels. Even Derek gets a vacation."

"To go to Argentina." Because Derek would spend what free time he had with his son, which was such a no-brainer that it didn't even factor into any relationship considerations Stiles might be harboring. And Stiles knew himself well enough to be fully aware that long distance wasn't his thing forever. He could imagine traveling as he did now for research or for cases and then coming back to one place where his life was, where maybe someone was, but Beacon Hills didn't feel like that place. Beacon Hills was home because Dad was here, but Stiles couldn't imagine making a life here.

He sighed and pushed into his father's touch. "I'm not hung up on Derek."

Snorting, Dad ruffled his hair further. "No, you'd never have introduced Metin to me then. Or that nice girl, Jamie."

"Jamie would even have been cool with the supernatural. Would that I had been bold enough to go live in France," Stiles mused and they both laughed.

...

The next day, Stiles worked from Derek's loft. At the very least it would make Scott happy, and after talking to Dad last night, Stiles was almost sure it would make Derek a little happy, too. Besides, Stiles could pace better in the loft than at the station and no one would be too concerned if he muttered to himself, and Derek had one corner set up as an office.

He called Malia and asked her to have an ear out for anything that might look like this case; if they were asking allied packs, and pulling in Lydia then they might as well ask Malia as well. This was the sort of politics Stiles emphatically _didn't_ want to deal with on jobs and it was giving him a headache.

The call with Malia barely ended, Derek called him.

"Stiles… The others found something at the Nemeton," Derek said heavily and it sent Stiles cursing for a good few moments. Eventually Derek elaborated, "Nothing damning, but people have definitely been there the last two nights. Beth thought maybe the first time was a fluke, so they went back this morning and—"

"Yeah, got it." Stiles rubbed his temple with his free hand. Definitely a headache coming on. If someone had been there… The Nemeton was deep enough in the Preserve that usually people didn't just happen upon it, so it was with purpose. And that meant a stakeout. But… "And today is the full moon."

Derek was quiet for a moment, perhaps surprised that Stiles still kept track. But Stiles wasn't a supernatural consultant for nothing, and there were more things affected by the moon than just werewolves. Then Derek said, "Yeah. If you still want to go though, I'll come with you."

Of all the wolves that Stiles knew well in the pack, Derek had the best control, born to the shift as he was, and while Scott and the others wouldn't have to be chained anymore during these nights, they weren't unaffected. On the other hand, Stiles had seen Derek act as he normally would regardless of the phase of the moon, and if whatever they were after took the moon as significant… Stiles made a mental note to check phases of the moon for the past victims once more, and said, "I'd be much obliged."

And he'd make sure to get a few hours of sleep this afternoon. He was too old to work full days on both sides of all nighters.

Luckily the Sheriff's department had jeeps in its pool, so Stiles and Derek didn't have to crouch on the ground and freeze their asses off that night. Well, Stiles would have frozen, he doubted Derek would be bothered by the early April chill. As it was, Stiles was still cold, but at last there was a dry car around him and he could sit instead of lurk.

He was still turning around in his head how the supernatural could be wrong, not twisted, not an abomination of the real thing, but plain wrong. As if whoever, whatever did this had never learned properly. How much of being a supernatural being was nature, what was nurture, and what was ritual? All the supernatural creatures that Stiles had met and who thrived either lived with humans or preyed on them, and as awareness of the supernatural waned, so did opportunities to prey on the baseline humans. 

"I can hear you thinking," Derek grumbled and Stiles grinned. Fifteen years ago, Derek would have barked (hah!) at him not to babble, and now he wanted Stiles to voice his thoughts. Oh how times were changing. But the excuse — that whatever was out there might hear them talking — was flimsy, as whatever would be able to hear their hearts beating, too.

"Okay," Stiles said and looked at Derek. He didn't need to stare into the darkness, Derek would be able to hear (and smell, through the cracked window) whatever long before Stiles would have a chance to see it. "Werewolf genetics. Go."

Raising an eyebrow, Derek returned his gaze. "Is this about Ben?"

Huh. Well, that would be a fringe benefit. "It wasn't until now."

Derek smiled softly, and looked out the window again. "Aren't you supposed to be the supernatural expert? We're just people, Stiles."

"D'uh. Otherwise there would be no interbreeding. Not the question."

The answer seemed to be more complicated, as Derek drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a minute before answering. "My father was human from a werewolf family, but my sisters and I are wolves. I had human cousins from both my parents' sides and it doesn't matter whether mother or father are human. I've never heard of two werewolves having fully human kids. Ben is a werewolf, if you want to know."

Stiles did, and he filed that information away but didn't pounce on it like he wanted. Instead he asked, "How do you know _how_ to be a werewolf though? Because trust me, Scott had a pretty steep learning curve. But he's a bitten wolf, so where's the difference?"

"You realize that this is like me asking you how you know how to be human, right?" Derek shot him an amused glance, and while the words had an edge he didn't seem angry. "There's no werewolf school, Stiles. Kids start shifting at around five years old, but the shift is instinctual like … walking, maybe. Talking. We learn to do it as those around us do it. Depending on the kid and how they handle the full moon we keep them homeschooled until junior high or high school. Packs…" And here Derek's voice went soft and quiet, "Packs are families, usually, werewolves, humans, all of them. A full pack of bitten wolves and strays like here it's … rare."

That also meant the Alpha pack had been an outlier, but that was a given anyway. Stiles chewed on his bottom lip. "So you can be a member of more than one pack?"

"If we never intermarried there'd be a host of other problems, so yes, of course. We don't repudiate our families just because we fall in or out of love. Divorce is less common in werewolf packs, but definitely not unheard of. Children go away, start their own packs or join others." Derek's eyes had glazed over, and Stiles wondered what he was remembering but didn't want to pry. "It's still territorial, and the matter becomes more difficult with bitten wolves because there's suddenly instincts at war with the habits and learnings of a lifetime, but born wolves…"

He shrugged.

"What you're telling me is you're just a dude who gets furry sometimes," Stiles said to lighten the mood and Derek took the out and grinned, canines slightly elongated.

The moon had risen by now in a cloudless sky, full and bright, but Derek didn't seem to be overly bothered. Stiles had to shift since the ropey scar on his thigh was beginning to seize up from the cold though; he hated stakeouts. He'd hated them in high school and he hated them now, and he wished that whatever would just come so they could go home and he could go to sleep.

He banged his knee on the dashboard and Derek shot him a withering look. Ah there was the Alpha he hadn't missed at all. "Yeah yeah," Stiles said and rubbed his smarting limb, "not everyone can be a hypercoordinated mythical being."

Rolling his eyes, Derek reached out and placed his hand on the nape of Stiles' neck, taking the pain. And while that was unnecessary for something this small, it was still nice, and yeah, okay, having Derek's hand on him was nice in general. It also conveniently took away the pain from his thigh … which Derek knew about, because it was hard to be intimate and hide that.

The sneaky bugger. Well, but Derek was wonderfully warm. Stiles rolled his eyes at himself. He'd need to talk to Derek when he handed in his report. Or he could ignore it, but he knew he'd always kick himself. So for now he let himself enjoy the way Derek was slowly stroking through the hair at the back of his neck and didn't give himself to the notion that either of them was being oblivious.

But it was perhaps a little too comfortable, and Stiles felt himself start to drowse. At least until Derek suddenly retracted his hand and sat up straighter.

Stiles wasn't foolish enough to ask, simply strained his useless eyes and ears into the darkness while Derek killed the lights from coming on when the door opened and as quietly as possible disengaged the door lock. They were parked hidden by the underbrush, so even with the moon shining down they weren't immediately visible from the Nemeton's clearing.

Then finally Stiles could also hear voices, and he saw four figures entering the clearing. They looked… Like a bunch of teenagers. They were laughing like a bunch of teenagers. Then came out a blanket and the four — two couples, apparently — started making out on the blanket. Next to Stiles, Derek silently headdesked against the steering wheel and Stiles was hard pressed not to laugh.

An FBI consultant and a sheriff's deputy who happened to be a werewolf had gone out on a full moon … to stake out a bunch of necking teenagers.

Finally, Derek got out of the car, flashlight in hand and then barked, "What are you doing here? This is private property!"

And while the teenagers were scrambling with their figurative tails between their legs, Stiles lost it. Opening his door, he almost fell out of the jeep. "You!" he giggled. It was so cold he could see his breath. "With the private property line!"

Meanwhile, Derek looked beyond self-satisfied as he collected the blanket. He threw it in the back of the jeep, and then stepped up to Stiles, who was still laughing. Without much fanfare, he took Stiles' face between his hands and kissed him.

Stiles let himself enjoy it. Because kissing Derek was an experience, because Derek knew very well what to do with his tongue and lips and teeth, and because Stiles had wanted this. So he let himself be pushed against the car — a far cry from being shoved against a wall — and wound his arms around Derek's neck to bury his hands in his hair. Derek's stubble was rasping over Stiles' face, and he tasted like the bad gas station coffee they'd had before coming out here; warmth flushed through Stiles, and it was the best thing in quite a while.

He sighed when the kiss ended and leaned their foreheads together.

Stiles reluctantly opened his eyes and licked his lips. Very quietly he said, "I have a rule, you know. I don't do this when I'm on a case. Especially not with my local liaison."

Humming in acknowledgement, Derek let his hands travel down Stiles' side and his chest. "So I should take you back to your hotel?"

"You're not making this easy," Stiles grumbled and pulled him closer so he could nuzzle against his neck.

"I'm not trying to," Derek admitted and gently nipped at the shell of his ear. But that was all he did. 

So they stood there, Stiles resting his head against Derek's collarbone and Derek stroking over Stiles' back, for an interminable amount of time. Far too much Stiles felt like the dog with two bones (and the irony of the idiom wasn't lost on him), who in the end stood there without even one of them. But he was not in this alone, and he eventually shook his head. "Take me to your terribly showy loft. But we need to make sure we don't give the pack the wrong idea."

...

"I wouldn't have left without talking to you," Stiles groused and Derek handed him a cup of ginger tea, because Stiles was actually very cold, and sat on the couch where just a moment ago Stiles' feet had been. Since the man didn't seem to object, he put his feet into Derek's lap. Much better.

"And I believe you," Derek said and wrapped the hand not holding his own cup around Stiles' ankle. "I decided I didn't want to wait for that."

Sighing, Stiles sipped his tea (very carefully, to not burn his tongue). Since the discussion on sex seemed to be postponed until he at least could feel all of his appendages again, he asked, "Did you mean it, about the Nemeton being private property? How much of the Preserve belongs to the Hale estate?"

"Pretty much all of it," Derek said. "We let people use it, but in the end it belongs to us. It took me a while to figure that out. I never cared when I was younger, and then I let Laura deal with it. Well."

Yes, that didn't work out so well. Stiles reached out and touched Derek's shoulder, hopefully to provide a small measure of comfort. Derek gave him a sad smile and turned to kiss his hand, then sighed and his breath brushed past Stiles' hand. "I'm not even sure Laura figured it all out, and Peter was no help either." Stiles snorted involuntarily and Derek shrugged. "It took a while, but I found my mom's notary in Arlington and finally got a proper overview of everything in the Hale name."

Huh, so that was why Derek had been back east. In hindsight, Stiles had always wondered why a family like the Hales would store all their money in a safe. It turned out they hadn't. But it was still weird. "Why so far away? Isn't it inconvenient having your lawyer four time zones away?"

"He's a wolf, too." Of course he was, and Derek chuckled when Stiles rolled his eyes. Derek's thumb was drawing small circles on Stiles' ankle, and it was almost distracting. "But from what I gather, my family thought it would keep all the papers safe. A little too safe, if you ask me." The last words were grumbled and made Stiles smile. "It took a while to sort everything out for Cora and me."

Yeah, Stiles could believe that. It sounded like a nightmare.

Silence fell between them until Stiles felt fingers in his hair. 

"Hey," Derek said, tea mug discarded somewhere, "I can take you to your hotel. And then we won't discuss it further."

This was exactly what Stiles had feared. No. No, and it really was time he made up his mind.

"No, Derek," he said and set his own empty mug on the cushions, reached for Derek's hand. "I want to. Hell, we're so obvious my dad has made us and I thought I had it under wraps."

"Your dad is the sheriff," Derek muttered and Stiles kicked at his thigh.

"And you're a werewolf, do you must know that I want … something, at least. I want to. I would have wanted to ten years ago, but we both know that would have ended horribly. But I can't be your—" he gestured in a way that he hoped would encompass _everything_. "I can't look out for the Betas, and I love the pack but I can't be in it, I can't stay here, I'm not—"

He knew he was panting, and he was painfully aware his voice had gotten high and breathy, his heart was probably skipping a few panicked beats, and he was not at all (nada, niente, nil) surprised that Derek shoved his legs roughly out of his lap. What he was distantly surprised by was how gentle Derek's hands were when he forced Stiles to look up at him.

"Stiles, hey," Derek said, voice calm and quiet, and infused with just the tiniest bit of Alpha power. "Breathe with me, alright? In and out, yeah like that."

It took way too long for Stiles to be calm again, but then he pressed his eyes shut and he felt Derek's lips linger against his forehead.

"Sorry," Stiles muttered, but he felt Derek shake his head, stroke his cheeks with his thumbs. "That killed the mood."

Chuckling, Derek shook his head again. "Stiles, look at me." And when Stiles did, Derek's eyes were very close, but then he sat back and let go of him. "I'm not asking you for a lifelong commitment. Or to join the pack. Or even make regular visits to Beacon Hills, even though your dad would be ecstatic and Scott would probably bounce off the walls. But up until five minutes ago you seemed to be on board with—" The corner of Derek's mouth curled up. "Something."

Oh, fuck it, Stiles thought and surged forward to be the one to initiate the kiss this time (and signal his enthusiastic agreement). 

After that there wasn't a lot of talking, at least none that Stiles could recall later. Thank fuck Derek had lube and condoms, though, because apparently he was a man after Stiles' own heart indeed and loved an easy cleanup. One would think sex with a werewolf on the full moon was particularly kinky, but Derek didn't like wolfed out sex (and his whole "we're people" speech explained a lot on that front), and for Stiles it wasn't enough of a kink to press it. So that was that.

Afterwards, Stiles lay in Derek's bed, with Derek's heavy arm around his waist, and his face smashed into the pillow. Content. God, he was an emotional mess and there were so many things... He must have made a sound, because Derek sighed. "You're thinking again."

"Genius," Stiles muttered and turned around. "Ugh, we have so much to talk about."

"Stiles." But Derek sighed and propped himself up on his elbow. "What's so urgent?"

To say Stiles had a list was maybe an overstatement. But Stiles had a list. Maybe his list had contingencies that didn't need to be on it. 

Maybe.

But the most important thing was, "How do we stop the Betas from noticing? And Scott?"

"The day Scott and the Betas invade my bedroom I'll move out," Derek grumbled and kissed him. Stiles could have happily spent the night kissing Derek. "You worry too much."

"The pack—" 

But Derek shook his head. "Stiles, you claim you're not part of the pack. And I even agree with you, because of all the reasons you've told me. And because apparently you get panic attacks when it's even hinted at. But you still act like you're part of the pack."

"I—" Stiles had nothing. Nothing at all. He did. He took responsibility and he organized, and he acted like pack. "Scott—"

"Is not your Alpha. Or mine." He touched Stiles' face. "I know you don't like disappointing him, but it's not the first time and it won't be the last. You don't ask him for permission every time you start a relationship with someone, do you?"

And yeah, Stiles' heart stumbled a bit when Derek said 'relationship', and judging by the smug smile Derek had heard that.

"Lord, no," Stiles said though.

"There you go." Derek kissed him again, slow and sweet, and murmured, "We'll figure it out."

And Stiles… Stiles wanted to believe him. There was the topic of work, but Stiles could figure that out, especially since he had a decade to build his reputation. He didn't have to live in Beacon Hills. He could … visit. Ask how Lydia did it. Derek could come visit him. They'd rack up so many miles. Maybe they could join a frequent flier program.

...

The next day Stiles was working from the loft again.

Earlier, Derek had kissed him and gone into the station, and Stiles had stuffed his shirt and underwear in the washing machine and borrowed something of Derek's to wear. Whatever, the pack could deal and he wasn't walking around in yesterday's clothes.

Besides, they all had jobs, which meant he had the loft to himself for the morning.

Or so he thought until just before eleven, the heavy doors opened and Mia sauntered in. When she saw him she froze briefly, but then shrugged and went to the fridge. Did the whole pack have keys to the loft? Would they walk into Stiles and Derek doing … argh, no, he was not going there now. 

"Are you skipping class?" Stiles asked casually and put water on for coffee.

"...no?" Mia said and oh, she looked guilty. Had Stiles been that bad at lying at eighteen? He hoped not.

But he also wasn't in any way, shape, or form responsible for her, so he shrugged. "I'm just making conversation, Mia."

She pulled a face and resurfaced from the fridge with a meatball between her fingers. "I don't need Chemistry to graduate anyway."

Ah, and Stiles was having Chemistry flashbacks. He almost asked if Harris was still dead, but that would probably have been wrong. So he just pulled a sympathetic face and waved Mia off. He made coffee for both of them while she ate her giant meatball and then let her fix her own drink.

Eighteen had been a long time ago, Stiles decided, when something else only occurred to him now. "Hey Mia. You can tell me to shut up, but how odd do your classmates think you are for hanging around with a bunch of adults?"

Because back then and in hindsight, Derek had been seriously skeevy surrounding himself with so many high school students. So skeevy. Scott was older than Derek had been back then, and if Mia was hanging around with the pack as much as Stiles thought she was… Well.

She made another face that told him everything. "I can't even blame them. I'd be weirded out if it was anyone else. The others think it's odd, and I can't explain… Yeah."

"Yeah," Stiles said. He'd been odd in high school too, even before Scott had been bitten by Peter, but after that… But at least he'd had Scott and Allison and, well, Erica and Isaac and Boyd, even Jackson. But Mia—

Wait. Odd. Weird. High school. Urban legends. His eyes snapped up from his coffee and Mia suddenly looked alarmed, and he wondered what his scent and heartbeat had just done there. "Mia. Your classmates, if they want to go on a dare or scare each other, or something like that. What's the most spooky place they'd go?"

"Spooky," Mia said and she made a face again, like she thought he was old. Clearly someone had not grown up on X-Files reruns. But then her tongue appeared between her lips as if she were thinking. Finally, she said, "The old Hale house. It's creepy, and people have been daring each other to go in there ever since junior high. I mean, with all the people who died there—"

"Yeah, I know," Stiles said. He didn't want to talk about the Hales. Did Mia even know that Derek was… No, she had to. God, he should have asked her earlier. _No one_ was tuned into scary shit the way teenagers were, Stiles should know, his teenage years had lasted approximately a lifetime. 

The supernatural was wrong, because _it wasn't supernatural in nature_. Lydia was a genius. Of course she was, but for more reasons than one.

Stiles got out his phone and called Scott. "When can you come with me to the Hale house?"

"Stiles, I'm in between two surgeries, can't this wait?" Scott complained but sighed.

Stiles bit his lip, and watched as Mia's eyes grew huge. "Hardly."

Scott made a sound of frustration. "Can't you—"

"Scott, I'm not taking Derek to his burned out family home to hunt for serial killers. If you don't want to come, Mia is ready to go." It was an empty threat, but Scott couldn't tell that through the phone. 

"No!" he said. "No, I can… Lunch. I can be there at lunch. Can you wait that long? Stiles, plase."

"Yeah ok. An hour then. See you Scott. Thanks." He hung up. 

Mia was staring at him with big eyes. "I want to come."

"No," he said emphatically. The protest was already on the tip of her tongue, he could _see_ it. The way her chin jutted out. The mulish expression on her face. So he took a step towards her, and continued, "I know you're brave and strong," (oh God, she reminded him so much of Erica it was painful), "otherwise you wouldn't have survived the bite. Trust me, I'm not saying that lightly, I know that first hand. But you're eighteen, I'm not taking you along when a serial killer might be lurking. Werewolf or no, I've learned my lesson in the most painful way possible."

She deflated. God, did all the young werewolves these days give up so quickly?

"Thank you. But Mia, really, thank you, I think you might have helped me crack the case. Huh." Actually… "Hey Mia." She looked up, clearly conflicted whether she should be pissed off at him or pleased that a friend of the pack was praising her. Well, teenagers, gotta love them. "Over the past … year or so, have people … been staying away from the Hale house for any reason?"

She shrugged. "It was winter, Stiles. But … I think Max said it had smelled weird there. But then, the house is burned down, isn't it? I don't… I mean, Derek."

Yeah, he knew. So he smiled at her. "Yeah, I know. It's fine. Thank you, Mia, truly."

She smiled nervously and nodded, then finished her coffee and vanished out the door again.

Stiles paced. He didn't want to call Derek with something that might be nothing. He hadn't slept much last night, but now he was keyed up. He tried calling Lydia but her phone was off. He tried calling Scott again, but his assistant informed him he was still in surgery.

He took his clothes from the dryer and threw them on, leaving the pile he had been wearing in Derek's bedroom. 

By the time Scott finally pulled up outside, Stiles was already waiting in the parking lot. He filled in his friend, leg nervously jiggling. 

Scott only looked grim. "We haven't been out there in forever. It's not part of our patrols, because who goes there? But I should have known… Mia should have told us."

"I don't think she made any connection there," Stiles said. "We wouldn't have."

"True," Scott said and sped faster through the midday traffic.

The Hale house looked more decrepit now than it had fifteen years ago, and Stiles seriously wondered why Derek had never torn it down. Maybe he still couldn't. 

"You know I always wondered how Kate Argent managed it," he told Scott, shivering in the forest chill or maybe from the sight of this burned out shell. "There were human members in that pack who would have been able to cross the Mountain Ash line."

But Scott's voice sounded tight when he answered. "Stiles, it smells of decay. Not … forest rot, dead bodies."

Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck fuck. Fuck.

"Fuck," he said, with feeling. He could see Scott not trying to wolf out, but he left him to it and went to gather flashlight from his gear bag in the car. Shit.

Carefully, they entered the house. While it was unlikely that the killers were still there, the structure was statically less than sound anymore, and Stiles let Scott investigate the second floor by himself. But his friend came back shaking his head.

"The basement," Stiles whispered, and Scott nodded grimly.

This time the wolf came out, and Scott carefully edged forward in Beta form. Halfway down, Scott covered his nose and shook his head. 

Stiles put a hand on his shoulder and positioned Scott at his back. He switched on the flashlight and tried to judge whether the steps were rotted through or would carry his weight. But whoever had built the Hale house once upon a time had known their craft, and they both made it down unscathed. 

It was amazing, actually, that Stiles had never been here, considering Derek had _lived_ here for a little while. As if he wasn't punishing himself enough. 

In the beam of the flashlight Stiles could still see where shelves once had lined the walls. Wine? Books? That was lost to time now. 

People had died here. The whole Hale family had choked to death and died in this basement, and tears sprang to Stiles' eyes when he thought about it. Teenagers used this place to dare each other where Derek had lost life as he'd known it, and blamed himself for so many deaths for so many years after. 

Taking a breath, now Stiles also could smell it. Putrefaction. Not fresh fresh, but not far along either. This wasn't decades old. Probably more like weeks to months, depending on how cold the winter had been. He hated that he knew that.

He found the body halfway down the large cavernous room. It probably had been a woman once, but she had been scavenged upon, fly larvae still crawled on her flesh, and she had two gold coins on her eyes. 

Barely keeping his gag reflex under control, Stiles stumbled back up the basement stairs and past Scott before he fell to his knees and breathed.

Scott's hand on his back felt enormous and warm, and Stiles closed his eyes for a moment, took the offered comfort. 

"I need to call this in," he said eventually. He knew how grim his voice sounded.

"Dude," Scott said in a hushed voice. "You need to call Derek."

That… Yeah. Yeah, he had to.

They were almost back at the loft when Stiles called and asked Derek to meet them there. He collected the clothes he'd been wearing this morning and a set for Scott and tossed theirs in the washing machine. The smell of decay would linger in their hair and on their skin, probably, but they could make do this way. He didn't even care that Scott saw the line of hickeys that was so conveniently hidden by the collar of the shirt. They had bigger problems.

Overall, Derek took the news better than Stiles had expected, and that sort of scared him. There was no rage, no anger, just disgust and a sort of defeated expression on his face and it broke Stiles' heart to see him like that. Suddenly he was pitifully grateful they'd been together last night, because at least Stiles didn't question his instinct of sitting with Derek and taking his hand. It was a small and useless gesture, but it was the only thing he could do. Hopefully Stiles wasn't the only one who felt a little better for it. Let Scott think what he would.

"I need to call the FBI," Stiles said to Derek, who nodded in defeat. "And my dad. I'll ask him to send Jordan out to secure the site and the body, alright?"

"How long ago?" Derek asked. He didn't sound broken. Upset, sure, but not broken.

Stiles exchanged a glance with Scott and then shrugged. "A month? Maybe two."

"Scott," Derek said, raising his head, "call Beth and Jing. See if you can get a trail, anything not related to the victim." Scott made a disgusted face. "I'm coming with you."

"No you're not," Stiles said. He was out of practice, could he still out-stubborn a werewolf?

Derek turned a raised eyebrow at him but didn't comment further. "Give us an hour to get a scent. Then do as you need to."

And then Derek stalked off.

It turned out, Stiles could _not_ still out-stubborn a werewolf. 

"Dude," Scott said when he came back from making his calls to Beth and Jing. "Chill. He has this."

"The point is," Stiles said and tore at his own hair. "He shouldn't _need_ to have this."

Scott shrugged and clapped him on the shoulder before making for the door himself. "Yeah, but we're over twenty years too late for that."

Left alone, Stiles started grumbling to himself. He should call it in now, but Derek was right that an hour on either side wouldn't make much of a difference in the long run.

Eventually, though, he had to formally inform the sheriff's station, and when he talked to Dad he asked him to send Jordan so no one would get weird ideas about why Derek and a bunch of random people might lurk at the Hale house. Then he called his FBI liaison and reported the find formally; usually the FBI would wait for local law enforcement to make the move, but since this was a killer across state lines, they had jurisdiction either way. 

They'd send someone from fucking DC to take over. No little field office clerk for Beacon Hills, no sir.

Stiles shook his head and went to do research. The coins on the eyes bothered him. It wasn't even hard to find, a simple search and… It was an affectation. A bastardization of the myth of Charon's obol, where a coin was placed in, or sometimes on, the mouth to pay the passage into the underworld.

It didn't fit the pattern _at all_. 

"It's wrong," he muttered. 

He pulled up the other cases, looked at all the evidence photos again. It was there, had been there all along, and he had noticed it but had taken it as insignificant because he'd been looking for a pattern. Because this was Beacon Hills he had heard horses and automatically assumed zebras.

Fuck.

Letting out a breath, he pulled up his text app and proceeded to barrage Lydia with the newest development as well as his theory. 

He grabbed the keys to his rental and by the time he arrived at the Hale house, there were police lines everywhere, a hearse, crime scene unit workers, and half the Beacon Hills' Sheriff's Department. The day was waning by now, but it wasn't like Stiles hadn't run around these woods in the dead of night for years before. 

It was easy to spot Derek and Scott, with Beth and Jing hanging a bit back but it wasn't like there was a crowd out here, and Stiles walked up to them, nodding at the deputies. What he wanted to do was run up to them, but that would raise questions.

"It's all wrong," he hissed quietly. "This is someone disguising murders as supernatural."

Derek's eyes might as well be made of stone as he watched people in protective gear and breathing apparatuses walk in and out of his family's home. It had to trigger less than pleasant memories, but the man had made it clear he didn't want Stiles to make any comments on that. So Stiles relegated his niggling worry to the back of his mind — his heartbeat probably said something else was up but there was no controlling that.

"What do you mean?" Scott whispered.

"It's all fake!" Stiles whisper-shouted and shook his head. "Look, I'll tell you later. The FBI will be here tomorrow. Did you get anything?"

Scott hesitated. It was Derek who muttered, "Maybe." When Stiles looked at him in question he shrugged. "The decay is overpowering. But … maybe those gold coins."

"American Gold Eagle," Beth muttered. She and Jing had drifted closer while they talked so Stiles could also hear them. "Nothing very special."

Nodding, Stiles looked around again. Dad nodded at him from across the crime scene and Stiles gave him a tight smile. It was best if he kept his dad out of this for now. Plausible deniability. 

"We can't break the chain of custody," Derek said. "But maybe Parrish and I can manage to get the others in late tonight or early tomorrow."

"Look at you, being all proper and respectable," Stiles muttered and felt Derek squeeze his upper arm. "Well. I guess I'll see you all that loft whenever you're done sniffing around."

Yes, he went there. No, he wasn't sorry.

He stopped by his dad and quietly let him know the FBI would be there in the morning, and then went his merry way.

...

"Charon's obol," Stiles said a few hours later. The pack was back at the loft, they had Lydia and Malia on video and Stiles' dad and Chris Argent on the phone, and it was ten in the evening. Stiles thought maybe he was eighteen again, but his body felt considerably older than eighteen. "The coins were placed on the eyes, not in the mouth. It's dead wrong. In ancient Greece, the coin was placed in the mouth to pay Charon the ferryman to take the soul to the underworld. One coin, not two — a return journey usually isn't planned.

"A lot of the other sites and the other rituals are the same. It's all perverted by what's been on _Supernatural_ or movies or literature. It's what would pop up in cursory research." He brought up a picture with the partially decomposed body of a teenage boy and a ring of dead vegetation around it. Brown lines criss-crossed the circle. "This was initially interpreted as some sort of ritualistic summoning circle that may have worked. I don't have the soil analysis in these files, but I now believe it was salt."

Sarah, Beth, and Isaac blinked at him slowly.

" _Supernatural_ ," Stiles said with a shrug.

"They literally salted the earth," Lydia mused and shook her head on Derek's big ass tv. It was weird, but Stiles could deal.

He continued, "There are many instances like that, where the ritual is just the slightest bit off, or is a made up one, or the site is wrong. Like the Hale house." And with any luck, not even the werewolves heard his heart skip a beat, and he really really tried not to look at Derek to check on him. "Everyone in the county — probably beyond it honestly — knows what happened there, so it's a bit of a local spooky site. Imbued with enough superstition to make someone think it's significant, but in the end it's just a horrible crime scene that should have been prevented."

Over the next few minutes he showed them several more examples and concluded with, "Someone is playing at … I don't even know what. Being an occultist. Something."

For a few seconds it was silent, and then Lydia pursed her lips. "Really Stiles, and you're wasting my time with this? You should have figured this out days ago. Isn't your thesis on this?"

Well, Stiles' thesis was titled _Crime and the Occult in North America 1970-2010_ and also covered the mass hysteria around the alleged satanic abuse scandals that had never happened. But it was still a post-hoc analysis of crimes that had been committed in an occult context, whether true or false Stiles had not not felt equipped to judge, it wasn't about people trying and failing to send someone across the river Styx. There was a fine line, and Lydia should appreciate it.

He sighed as he watched her shake her head and vanish from the call.

When she logged off, Jackson rolled his eyes. "Stilinski, I thought the FBI was _paying_ you for this shit."

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose and took the ribbing. He would have seen it, if he hadn't been looking for what was there instead of absent.

"No one is missing," Derek said eventually into the cacophony. "At least no one had told us someone is missing. We'll try to get something off the coins after we're done here."

But they were done, and even though there was some grumbling, they filed out until only Derek and Stiles remained at the loft. Stiles packed up his laptop, reconnected the cables of Derek's flatscreen where they belonged, then looked around for what he might have missed. His clothes were probably dry by now, but even Scott had left in his borrowed clothes. It probably didn't matter.

When Stiles glanced up, Derek stood at the door and looked a bit unsure. "Do—" He cleared his throat. "Are you staying?"

That was something Stiles hadn't considered and he stopped grabbing his stuff and tilted his head. "Do you want me to?"

"Of course." Derek frowned as if that had never been a question. But then, maybe it hadn't and Stiles was just oblivious.

Sighing, Stiles smiled and hoped when he glanced up through his lashes it was contrite. "Well then… See you later."

But Derek still stood there and scowled. "Go to bed, Stiles, you look like you need it."

And then he left. Stiles laughed weakly as he let himself sink onto the couch, head in his hands. He did though. He really really did. Until now the adrenaline had carried him, but now that he was alone and there was nothing to do but wait for tomorrow he was crashing.

Once he had been the boy who ran with wolves, but he hadn't been that in a decade and a half, his year spent with Derek before grad school notwithstanding. And while he kept in shape, he couldn't keep up anymore the way the others might. But at least Sarah had looked equally drawn, and she presumably _hadn't_ been at a stakeout last night, and she also probably hadn't found a dead body today. So hah, take that.

The dryer had apparently finished hours ago, so Stiles rescued his and Scott's clothes and stacked them on top of the machine. He borrowed another t-shirt and went to take a shower.

Derek used, and Stiles probably shouldn't be surprised, still the same scent-free shampoo.

Derek had wanted Stiles to stay. If Stiles didn't have it completely wrong — and he thought he didn't — Derek also wanted them to try to actually be together. Not as friends with benefits, not as a casual thing when Stiles was in town, but really honestly be together. This was not the same Derek who'd come to Beacon Hills looking for his sister with all the guilt of the world resting on his shoulders, and Stiles was glad for it.

People changed. Sometimes slowly, but so long as they didn't remain static it was good. The same was, after all, true for Stiles. After everything, after Lydia and Eichen House, he hadn't been able to go to therapy, and it had taken forever but eventually he'd come to a place where he had been able to look back at his high school years and at what he had done while the Nogitsune had taken up residence inside of him and not feel dread. He wasn't done with it, he'd never be done with it, but he could still live his life in a reasonably happy fashion. Maybe Derek had also arrived there.

Yet still Stiles had fallen back into old habits earlier today, where his loudest imperative was to protect. Any and all of them, Scott and Derek, fuck it, probably even Jackson when it came right down to it. So maybe he had some adjusting to do.

Once out of the shower he fell into bed and into a dreamless sleep that he only woke from when Derek crawled into bed with him. He must have showered, too, because when Stiles reached out and stroked through his hair, it was still damp. The kiss hello was not as involved as Stiles might have expected it, but it was late and perhaps even werewolves got tired.

"Got the scent?" he murmured and burrowed against Derek's chest, Derek's hand stroking aimlessly over his back.

"Hopefully," Derek said. "Go to sleep."

But Stiles was semi-awake and long association with werewolves and other supernatural beings had taught him keeping alert at least a little bit could save his life.

He sighed and let himself card through Derek's short hair. "So I may have gone a bit overboard earlier today. I wasn't actually trying to stop you from going."

"Yes you were," Derek said and one of his fingers became a claw, scratching over the material of the shirt without doing harm. "It's fine, Stiles. But I don't need protecting, even from myself. I should have had the house torn down when I came back here."

Frowning, Stiles shook his head and propped himself up a bit. "Everyone needs protecting, Derek, even werewolves and law enforcement."

He shut up before he could put his foot deeper in his mouth. It wasn't like Derek was ignorant about Stiles' compulsive need to keep all his ducks in a row, after all he'd watched Stiles run all across Beacon County trying to look out for Scott and nag his dad about his diet. For fuck's sake, Stiles had gone to fricking _Mexico_ to bring Derek's wolfy ass back to the living after being kept unconscious and _de-aged_ while wrapped in wolfsbane (among other things, like pools, kanimas, crazy Alphas, not to mention helping acquit Derek from suspicion of mass murder ... and other vagaries of being a werewolf), and how was that even Stiles' life. But that didn't mean he had to make it worse.

In the dim light of the room, Derek smiled before kissing him. And that was nice, especially when he trailed his lips down Stiles' throat and pressed, "Thank you," into his skin.

Stiles wasn't usually the type to watch people sleep. Unless it was a hospital or something, but that was different, that was a vigil. Stiles wasn't usually the type to watch people sleep who he shared a bed with. It was sorta creepy.

Right now though, Stiles didn't have much of a choice, because Derek's heavy arm was sprawled across his back and it was too early to actually get up. Stiles didn't know why he was awake. He'd not slept much in the past few days, but he was wide awake, his mind going in circles, while Derek slumbered on. Stiles would have thought he was an early riser. Huh. 

"You couldn't have been this possessive the last time we did this regularly?" Stiles grumbled, the twilight casting Derek's face in shadow. When he got no answer, he sighed and said very quietly, "I want this to work. I still— Well. I want you, I want this. I can't do it all, I can't be with the pack, even though I'll probably worry about them just as much as if I were. That's why I can't move here. But I want to be with you."

How long would Derek sleep? Would Stiles be stuck here for hours? Stiles was rather sure his bladder wouldn't be able to hold out for hours.

Stiles thought about at least trying to go back to sleep when the arms across his back tightened. "Stiles."

Derek sounded nice with his voice sleep-thick, and Stiles hid his face so he could roll his eyes at his own ridiculousness.

Derek sighed and kissed his temple. "Just you, and me, and Ben. Don't try to talk yourself out of it."

"I'm not, I—"

Of course Derek had heard, Stiles was in bed with a werewolf.

But Derek talked over him. "If you packbond with the others again that happens. If you don't, then everyone will finally learn to live with that."

They stared at each other for a moment until finally Stiles nodded and Derek grinned and kissed his forehead before rolling out of bed. "Come on. We both have things to do today." When Stiles groaned and grabbed a pillow and pressed it on his face, Derek's voice turned soft, "When you were applying to grad school, I wanted to stay with you. I left because it would have ended in worse than tears and I didn't want that for you."

Stiles blinked against the pillow, then threw it away and wanted to catapult himself out of bed, but Derek had already vanished — probably to the bathroom, if the buzzing of the razor was any indication.

...

Stiles had set up shop at Derek's desk, while the man himself was out sniffing out mass murderers (ah, dog jokes never got old). Stiles could have gone to his dad's office and worked there, but he knew how this spiel usually went when the FBI showed up somewhere, and he wasn't interested. He might as well sit out here and start organizing his thoughts for the report he'd have to hand in. And maybe raid Derek's desk for snacks, there was no way a dude with high metabolism like Derek didn't have snacks.

Agents Warwick and Anderson showed up at 9:15 am sharp. They were the closest thing the FBI had to an X-Files department, but Stiles mostly thought so because they ended up on a lot of his cases. If he hadn't known Lydia would eviscerate him slowly and painfully, he would have cracked a few X-Files references with Anderson before — she was a redhead and looked like she could disembowel him with a quirk of her eyebrow. Warwick, who seemed like a golden retriever half the time on the other hand, was a far cry from Mulder, so maybe it was for the best. They nodded at Stiles on their way to the Sheriff, but that was it. They'd come find him later.

Half an hour later, Derek sauntered in and was apparently in a good mood. He leaned over Stiles to get a look at his screen, and he smelled of woods and outdoors. They were not quite touching, but it was nice. Derek didn't seem convinced of what he saw on the screen. "Spook squad arrive yet?"

"Derek," Stiles said slowly and quietly, "you are a werewolf."

Derek shrugged and moved away to lean back next to him against the desk.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "The agents are with my dad." He paused. "Got anything?"

Tapping his nose, Derek gave him a nod. "Maybe. We need to wait for the ME report."

After the quick look Stiles had gotten last night, he was pretty sure the victim was a woman, but Derek had to be ambiguous here. Stiles hummed in understanding and saved his document when he spotted Warwick and Anderson exiting the Sheriff's office from the corner of his eye.

Of course Derek had noticed as well, and they spoke a few words about Isaac's job with city hall, until Warwick, with his British public school accent (and finally Stiles knew what had always rubbed him a little wrong about the guy because he sounded like _Jackson_ ) said, "Catching up with old chums, Stilinski?"

Figured that Warwick knew Beacon Hills was his hometown. Well, it _was_ part of why he was here. So Stiles just grinned and looked at both agents; Anderson looked exasperated. "Always serves to be on good terms with law enforcement. Agent Anderson, Agent Warwick, Deputy Hale here was assigned to assist me and has been very helpful."

"We heard," Anderson said and crossed her arms after shaking hands with Derek and actually smiling. She was a tall woman, and Stiles always thought she was a little imposing, especially when she loomed over him like this and he could see her weapon. "I guess we can't hope you have finished your report already."

Sadly, it wasn't even a question. Stiles shook his head, "They sent you here on a red-eye because we had a late breakthrough last night. I tried unsuccessfully to catch up on my sleep after that. But okay, I tried to sort everything out for you."

Stiles pulled out all the files and explained quietly what he had figured out and what was wrong with each of the cases — at least where the supernatural was concerned. "The way I see it," he finished, "you have at least one wannabe occultist on your hands. If they were real, they would have done it right and achieved whatever it was they were after. This is trying and failing. And therefore … this doesn't fall into my resort but into yours and Deputy Hale's."

Derek stared at him for a moment, probably because Stiles hadn't shared his theory, then snorted. Stiles just barely resisted the urge to wink at him.

"The autopsy is being performed as we speak," Derek said and checked his watch. "Actually, it might just be finished. Would you like a ride?"

Warwick shook his head. "We'll find our own way. We'll be in touch after we've spoken with your examiner. Thanks, Stilinski. Will you stick around or email us?"

Exchanging a quick and covert look with Derek, Stiles shrugged. "Both; I'll finish up for you and then take care of some family matters. Let me know if you need any input."

"As always," Anderson said, and as always they wouldn't call. Or well, they only called if it was urgent and by then shit had already hit the fan and Stiles had to keep people from being killed. Again. He really only had exchanged the group he was protecting … although the FBI paid a lot better.

Once the agents had left, Stiles rested his head on the desk and felt Derek squeeze his shoulder. "I know, you have to work," Stiles said and waved him off. "Will I see you tonight?"

"Just come over." Derek hesitated. "I'm surprised you didn't insist they take you with them."

Stiles leaned back in Derek's chair and sighed. "Even I can learn. Sometimes." His smile was a little self-deprecating. "I've learned my life will be a lot longer and a lot easier if I leave the police work to the actual police. Supernatural shit… I'll help if they ask me? But I'm human, and I have the scars to prove I'm no coward… So, yeah, I'm not helpless, but usually there's some sort of of supernatural entity to take care of that angle. N'est ce pas?"

Raising his chin, Derek appraised him as if he was seeing him in a new light. But then he just smiled and moved away. "Now get away from my desk, Stiles, I have some actual police work to do."

Stiles cracked up and couldn't even pretend to be mad.

...

A few days later Stiles was loitering around the Sheriff's station, because he figured more time spent with Dad was always a plus. That he would know right away when there was a development in the case was an additional advantage of course, but there was no reason he had to let on to that. He also got to watch Derek work and interact with the other deputies, and while they did see each other daily in private it was still … nice.

Stiles had given up the pretense and had surrendered his hotel room to stay with Derek instead. And that was… Stiles was loath to use the word 'fulfilling', but it was. Sure, the pack milled around there, but sometimes only Scott came over and they hung out. But Stiles had also finally seen Scott's full Alpha form, the complete shift to wolf, and it was marvellous (Stiles still needed to convince Derek to show him), and Scott seemed to come around to the idea of it being just them.

And when Stiles and Derek were alone. Well. It probably was a good idea to built some sort of foundation to qualify what they had as a proper relationship instead of beings friends who had sex and shared a bed, and Stiles was so down with that. It should not be so easy with Derek of all people; but then they both had changed since the last time they had been not-quite-together, and they both wanted this to work.

"Alright," Dad said into the phone, "sure. We'll be here." The call disconnected and he looked at Stiles, who had been fiddling with his report. "Your FBI friends will be in shortly."

"Oh?" Stiles hadn't heard anything from the investigation. Partially because Derek didn't want to talk about work at the end of the day (and Stiles was sort of sick of his own lengthy report that covered every single case they had handed to him), partially because theoretically it was none of Stiles' business, and admittedly they had better things to do. He knew the wolves had been able to follow the scent to a hotel, because apparently the perps had walked. He knew the victim wasn't local but a woman who had vanished from her university in San Francisco.

But Dad shrugged and got them both a coffee.

Then Stiles saw Derek breeze into the bullpen and a smile started tugging on his lips until he saw the frown and the phone Derek tucked away. It was his second phone, the one he used to talk to Luna Valente; Stiles knew because it was silver. Then Derek caught his eye and Stiles raised his eyebrows in question, but Derek waved off. It looked a bit defeated, but before Stiles could go out and investigate, Warwick and Anderson entered the station and made straight for the Sheriff's office.

Derek followed them and leaned as inconspicuous as possible against the wall.

"It's a doomsday cult," Anderson said and tiredly flipped her hair out of her face. It was clear she hadn't slept too well the last few days. "Over the past thirteen years they've tried to summon the lords of the underworld, apparently, with every ritual they could find. Apparently those were all more pop culture than the real deal, as you suggested, Stilinski. Clumsily done, and it's truthfully a bit embarrassing that we didn't find them sooner."

Stiles shrugged. "What were you supposed to do without forensic evidence?"

Grinning, Warwick shook his head. "Anyway, since Hale managed to track them down to a hotel and then even chanced upon that coin dealer," here Stiles raised his eyebrows at Derek again, who shrugged, and Warwick continued as if he hadn't noticed, "we could tie several of the hotel guests to the case. They paid cash, but they were known aliases and we could tie them to a farmstead in Idaho. We knew it was a doomsday cult, but they had always seemed harmless and there was no evidence before… Well. The whole group is being picked up as we speak."

"So long as it doesn't turn into another siege," Stiles muttered.

"Stiles!" Dad said and shook his head. "Thank you, Agent Warwick. It's good to know we could help you."

Anderson nodded and got up. "We'll be in touch. It was great working with you, you have great deputies."

Dad beamed, everyone shook hands, and then the FBI breezed out of Beacon Hills. 

Letting out a breath, Dad looked at both of them. "Well that went down well. Thanks, Derek."

Derek nodded, and Stiles was loath to say he pouted but— "And no thanks to Stiles?"

"You were handsomely paid for it, if I understood Agent Anderson correctly," Dad said and winked at him. "Get out of here. I'm sure you still have to finish up your report."

Scrunching up his nose, Stiles started to pack up his things. To his surprise, Derek followed him out of the station, hands in the pockets of his uniform pants. After he had stored his laptop bag in the trunk of his rental, Stiles turned around and cocked his head at Derek. "What's going on?"

Derek moved his head and indicated the street, so Stiles followed him until they were out of sight and out of even werewolf earshot. Eventually they sat on a low wall of natural stones surrounding a garden and Derek took his hand. Okay. Before he could get a panic attack, Derek nudged him gently.

"Luna called me," he said, and Stiles nodded. He'd surmised as much. "She's sending Ben, and Cora and her husband, and about ten other kids here."

What?!

"What?!" Stiles' mind started going a mile a second, there had been a territory dispute but— "Is she well? Is Ana okay? What's wrong with Cora?"

"Nothing's wrong with Cora, she's pregnant and…" She was what? This was the first time Stiles had heard about it, but before he could ask, Derek let out a long breath and continued, "The other pack, they teamed up with rogue hunters and Luna doesn't want to risk the kids getting drawn into it. Ana is fine. Cora is fine. The other kids, they have family in the States and they'll be picked up eventually, it's just easier to send them as a group. I'll ask Chris to make some calls, see if we can get them some support."

Okay. Okay. Okayokayokay.

"Okay," Stiles echoed the word bouncing around in his head, a silent mantra against the panic. "Hey, how did you tie the people in the hotel to the coins? I know you had the list of guests from the time of death and all but the coins?"

Blinking rapidly, Derek visibly switched gears. "Beth knows one of the local coin dealers." It turned out Beth was the owner of the place they'd had burgers the first evening, and apparently she knew half the town. "The nutjobs bought locally."

"Huh," Stiles said. "That's… Kinda stupid."

"Yeah," Derek answered and squeezed his hand. "Stiles…"

It threw a wrench into their plans. Stiles was pretty sure their plan had been half-baked anyway, because of course Derek would spend his vacation in Argentina. Actually, Stiles was surprised Derek hadn't gone all angry white knight in Alpha armor and bought a ticket to the first flight down south, but maybe he also knew, as Stiles did, that him getting involved in a pack war like this would do more bad than good.

So their plan was crap now that Ben would be here. Not that Stiles was opposed to kids, Stiles loved kids. Hell, Stiles' dad loved kids and would be ecstatic that Ben would be here, and Cora's kid and soon another baby, because Stiles wasn't stupid and had noticed the covert glances whenever a small child crossed their path. 

Yeah, his dad wanted grandkids, especially since no one else in the pack had had children yet, due to the glaring lack of stable relationships. Jackson and Sarah were thinking about kids, he knew that, and Jing was apparently seeing a gentleman in town but was secretive about it, but the rest of them were woefully single. But then Stiles knew how hard it was to find someone who was cool with the supernatural, and Stiles was only peripherally involved in it and not supernatural himself.

Was there something like a supernatural mixer? Tinder for creatures of the night? Who would know? Derek? But then Derek had always managed to date when Tinder hadn't been a thing. On the other hand, aside from Braeden, all the people Stiles knew that Derek had been dating were dead or had become villains. Ana seemed alright, though, even if it hadn't lasted. What did that say about Stiles? Had Stiles lived long enough to become the villain of his own story? No, that seemed unlikely. Stiles didn't feel like a villain. Did villains ever feel like villains?

"Derek," Stiles said and took a breath to clear his mind. He had a tentative plan. Maybe. Stiles couldn't be in Beacon Hills permanently, but he _could_ be closer. Maybe. "I would love to meet your son."

The smile on Derek's face was brilliant, and for a minute or so they were kissing. Stiles had never been into PDA really, but he could get used to this. And God, Cora would be back as well. The Hales would be back in Beacon Hills, at long last.

Then Stiles cupped Derek's face and pressed their foreheads together. His chest was full to bursting with affection (dare he call it love?) it made him giddy, and he didn't know how to tell Derek. "Look… There's a lady in Portland who consults for law enforcement across the Pacific Northwest. She's a Gatekeeper, and she's been making noises for years that she wants to retire. Her daughter would be fine taking over her main duties, but loathes the idea of police work. I could… Offer my assistance there, and the FBI will find me wherever anyway."

"You could?" Derek asked, but he was already smiling. 

Stiles hummed, kissed him again. "If you would like that."

And maybe, one day… Maybe he would be able to go home for good. Even though he didn't dare say it yet.

"I would like that very much," Derek said and pressed their mouths together again.

Stiles couldn't resist murmuring into the kiss, "And I have a brilliant idea for an app."

-Fin


End file.
